TO GEORGE H. BOUGHTON, R.A. (WITH A VOLUME OF VERSES) PRING stirs and wakes by holt and hill; SPRIN In barren copse and bloomless close Revives the memory of the rose, And breaks the yellow daffodil. Look how the spears of crocus fill The ancient hollows of the snows,- Yet what to you are months? At will For you the season comes or goes; We watch the flower that fades and blows, But on your happy canvas still Spring stirs and wakes! ROSE, IN THE HEDGEROW GROWN ROSE, in the hedgerow grown, Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay Comes up from the fields new-mown, For here was it not here, say?— Ah yes!—with her bright hair blown, ROSE! That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving, That laurelled pall! Blithe and rare spirit! We who later linger Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger,- SURGE ET AMBULA "ARISE, and walk"-the One Voice said ; And lo! the sinews shrunk and dry Loosed, and the cripple leaped on high, Wondering, and bare aloft his bed. The Age of Miracle is fled. Yet though the Power to raise the dead Treads earth no more, we still may try To smooth the couch where sick men lie, Whispering to hopeless heart and head"Arise, and walk!" THE SIMPLE LIFE "And 'a babbled of green fields."-ShakespearE-CUM WHE THEOBALD. HEN the starlings dot the lawn, Cheerily, with blameless cup, Greet the wise world waking up ; Ah, they little know of this, They of Megalopolis ! Comes the long, still morning when Then, the pure air in our lungs,- Then we write as would, I wis, Next (and not a stroke too soon!) Appetite our entrée is, Far from Megalopolis! |